


Isolation

by fre



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dissociation, Fluff, Isolation, M/M, PTSD, Post-Fall of Overwatch, early stages of relationship, existential?, hope this isn't too bizarre, moderate angst, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fre/pseuds/fre
Summary: despite their closeness, Genji still hides from Zenyatta





	Isolation

In the dream, he haunted himself- a metal man, his eyes dull with fever, gazing into the fluorescent cast mirror. Genji focused on him, watching as if from within the wall. This bunker, so stark and utilitarian, was the unmistakable convalescence bay at the Blackwatch base in the Alps. His doppelgangar leaned closer into the reflection, peering deeply through a duplication of darkness.

In the black pupil of his eye, a magnetic chasm glared. Looking was painful, but it satisfied something within, as well as a forthcoming sense of dread. Impossible to look away, he was watching over shoulders, through eyes, constantly back at himself. In seconds Genji was awake, but motionless. The crash and rattle was the unmistakable sound of his door leaving its hinges followed by unfamiliar steps. His lungs clenched in air as he focused, waiting for this crafty intruder to fumble so carelessly again. Genji unsheathed his blade and readied himself to lunge. The faint steps navigated the floor below. He moved in gentle trails, mirroring the intruder, deftly landing with just enough motion to deal the first strike.

There was no one. The lower floor was empty. Low storm winds dragged at the chimes outside. His door was untouched. For a minute Genji remained, unsure of what to make of what he heard, or where these fears had come from.

Getting comfortable was impossible. He leaned upright between the wall and the dusty rugs that had been left over from the last tenant. He was glad he had not disposed of them now. The loft felt disturbingly exposed, as though something still watched through the creases of doorway. He drew his knees in and tucked them under his arms. Dawn was rising, but his mind evaded sleep.

Genji got up and stretched, doing his best to concentrate and reassure himself of safety. His eyes couldn't stop searching. The hours barely passed. He opened a window and breathed deeply, the village to the west awakening for the day. He considered staying home again, making it the fifth time this week he would disappoint Zenyatta.

Clouds darkened. Already he had waited past their usual meeting time and if he waited any longer it would surely storm. He felt heavy and invisible, traversing the path to the sanctuary at an ghoulish pace. Had the walk always been this long?

Genji found Zenyatta in the sanctuary, meditating beside a window. He greeted his student warmly, although something in his tone suggested surprise for seeing him. Zenyatta offered him a seat and politely inquired about his absence.

“I just needed to be alone,” he said, conclusively, but Zenyatta only responded with empty signals. “If I worried you... I'm sorry. I needed space. I never meant to hurt you at all.”

Zenyatta rested his hand on Genji's back. “I understand. Next time, I hope that you will not hesitate to inform me of these feelings. We must both exercise trust by communicating.”

“Okay. I promise, Master.”

Zenyatta nodded. He seemed satisfied but his gaze hovered over Genji. “Wonderful. I had missed your company, Genji.”

His index finger curled twists in the muslin cloth around his shoulders; blush patterning his cheeks. “I missed you, too. I just felt so trapped and I wanted to clear my mind.”

“I see. How are you feeling today?”

“Tired. I spent all night over thinking.” His exhaustion was obvious now, the slouch in his posture, the texture of his voice.

Zenyatta stroked his arm reassuringly. “You are welcome to stay here, if you would like. Or, if you are comfortable talking about it, I am open to listen.”

“No. It's trivial. Nothing worth talking about.” His tone dragged with biting apathy, but Zenyatta did not flinch.

“I understand.”

Light rain approached and palls of dusky clouds trimmed with torrential blue cloaked the heavens. Winged spines of mountains unfurled beyond and somewhere, the moon was rising. Genji was quiet for the rest of the day, more distant than usual. Film clotted his unblinking eyes, his reactions shifting nervously.

Zenyatta slid his arm under Genji's, drawing him closer. “You ought to get your rest, Genji. You do not seem yourself when you're this tired.”

“Yes, Master. I think I will feel better in the morning.”

“Perhaps I could accompany you home. I would be afraid if something-”

“I'll be fine, Master. Thank you, though.” He rose swiftly to leave, but Zenyatta clasped his arm.

“Genji, you are worrying me. Please understand, I am deeply concerned for your well being. There is nothing I can force you to do,” his fingers wrapped through Genji's, holding it up to his chest where synthetic flesh concealed a human heart. “Please do not be afraid to ask for help. I want you to learn the value of your body and prioritize your own safety.”

He was blushing again, this time matching his pulse to the the constant jumping circuits keeping him alive. He hated this sudden welling of emotions flooding together into irate embarrassment. “No, Zenyatta. You always do this- ” he recognized the anger in his voice too late and stifling it required concentration. “I just need space to think.”

Genji dashed out before his voice had a chance to break. Running from Zenyatta agonized him, especially after he had been so gentle, after he had promised; Genji's eyes watered. He knew Zenyatta cared about him but it was hard letting him in after years of isolation. It was easier losing himself then, drifting apart from an old identity, allowing himself to detach from this earthly shape.

He scaled up the loose scaffolding, clinging to stone and mortar before sliding through the wrinkled curtain. He let the shadows hang, keeping the emptiness contained.

Someone else is here. Though nothing had moved, no evident damage, something watched, motionless and silent. Genji moved hesitantly, sliding the smaller blade out from the boards like plate glass. Each step down, he reminded himself, _don't look back_ , or _it's nothing, you need to sleep_.

He could relax for a moment on the lower level, setting the kettle on the burner, sitting down to survey the room. The tension in the loft seemed distant, as though leagues away, floating into asteroids above. Mortar chapped with rot cracked through foundation, while needle thin tears in the supports promised to slice the structure in half. Patchy boarded up windows, rusted exposed pipes.

 _What would Zenyatta think, if he knew I lived like this?_ Genji wondered, watching steam rise through a notch in the ceramic lip. He had returned to the loft, somewhat more at ease, focusing on ending the evening peacefully. His eyes closed to meditate, losing himself in search of clearer thoughts. Then winding closer, into drowsy emptiness, he went in search of nothing.

 

Peeking through a thin perforation, there was light on the other side, though it seemed distant. Utterly silent, other then a ghostly hum which produced voices creaking like birds, already gone before reaching him. Genji lulled back in the void. He had been here before, waiting in the dark forever.

…

“What is this?”

A familiar voice reminded him, “You're so loud. It's almost 1am.”

“Sorry,” he said, and added hesitantly, “anija.”

He followed along, clinging to his brother's haori. The walls were a cold, patchy color, but beyond all the windows was opaque darkness. It was hard to focus, navigating down the oblong hallway. How long had it been since he had set foot here?

“It's okay,” Hanzo whispered back. Genji was falling behind. “What's wrong?”

“Why am I back here?” he asked, fear in his small voice.

“What?” They were on the stairs now, looping down into a wide, dark pit. Hanzo's voice was leagues below, sundered and drowning. “Just keep up.”

Genji followed, the tension on the silk in his fingers lost. There was no one else here and it was so dark. _How can I keep this together?_ he thought. His hands searched for the walls, for any rough texture of paper or carpet. Space was only a guess here.

Genji called for him. He was only just beginning to find light again when, upon turning, the lofty rises of the castle manifested before him, loading in bursts. Frigid air saturated the room, the golden lanterns flushed of all warmth. Genji walked forward, toward the left entrance, where the light had blown out. A flat signal in the distance. Tension scattered along the skin of his neck.

It was just the tapestry, twice as massive, poorly lit in this vacant room. Incense ash discolored the mat flooring. Shadows swarmed in the balconies above.

A voice glitched through the radiating hum- his voice. “Genji?”

It sounded closer now, pocketed as though above the shrine. There were small tears in the paper. He inspected further, a hole matching the perfect height of his gaze. All within was pure and dark.

Through the disjointed static he heard himself again, asking questions. It was only ever his own voice. Who was on the other end? His heart loaded unexpectedly, rushing the sudden need for air. The walls grew closer, shadows enveloping the steps to the inner sanctum, a crushing sense of discomfort pressing him closer. Just being here unnerved Genji now, feeling smaller than ever; he crouched down, recognizing the tears on his palms. Where was Hanzo? How long had this ash been here?

He didn't want to look through the hole, but perhaps it was the only way. Static evenly cloaked the room, but where it originated remained a mystery. Sometimes above but mostly from the darkness behind the ink black letters.

As children he and his brother had stood eye to eye with the tapestry, evening their height with the kanji; his fingers flat against the crown of his head, and his brother's hand, too, gently patting his head. They were only blots now; paper rife with tears. Genji stepped closer and gazed deeply into darkness.

“Why are you hiding?”

 

He let the dream go, curling back into bed. Soft sheets of rain only just began, rolling in mild sweeps through the village. Numbness prickled in his hands- both hands, the sensation no different in his cybernetic limb. Yet the fingers moved unprompted in odd ways. Minute movements, tiny circuits twitching erratically, pinning through each simple flex.

Genji closed his eyes. It was still so dark outside, thunder calling distantly. The curtains rolled as movement slid out from under them and then down the stairs in one motion, swift and nearly silent. He jumped, hyper aware of his surroundings, hands frantic for the dragonblade. Now he was definitely not alone. Footsteps paced below.

“Who's there?” Genji asked, his voice so unrecognizable, half scrambled by mechanisms. “You are trespassing.” He dreaded the thought of looking down into the darkness. No matter how deeply he breathed, the anxiety raced back.

His own face gazed up at him. Twenty-five years old, hair slick and dark, bleeding from a splitting wound, cut vertically. Unmoving. Pale white stare. Jaw coming undone. The longer he looked the louder the dull sound became, the more stinging the vibration, the more clear it was the echo of his quaking heart.

Genji backed away. What nightmare was this? He held his chest, testing each breath fearfully. Cold ice of silence over hours, well into the night, stiffly remembering the sleep he desperately needed. But was it still down there- the apparition?

“What do you want?” his voice pained and exasperated. He could sense eyes burrowing through the woodwork, watching.

His hands touched his exposed face, feeling along the scars and ridges of the remaining structure. The skin felt like plastic. Not long ago he hated this face; even now he felt nothing for it. It was hard to even suggest that this was his own face. It was hard to even think of himself as Genji anymore. Genji was dead. He ought to be rotting; this body and all the metal and viscera that it encompassed weren't real at all.

Was he something else entirely? The outcome of tragic circumstances in an unfortunate time line of its own? Thinking about it disturbed him. He let the theory sink deeper, considering all the possible horrors. _Am I an impostor? And if so, then what is_ this _?_ Looking down in dismay at his mechanized body, two hands of unknown origin, their nerves knitted to feel as one. Perhaps now two Genjis existed. One half had already been severed and made whole, surely the other had. An empty shell- a corpse. His mind raced in terrifying angles.

He noticed the pool of tears gathered in his cybernetic palm. Loneliness crowded in his small abode, a venomous pressure overflowing. Any attempt to center himself ended with paranoia, watchful eyes following the darkness in overworked patterns. In his mind, Genji held close to Zenyatta's voice, elegant and nurturing, yet focusing to no avail. He wanted to be with Zenyatta, safe from the isolation his in mind.

He remembered his master's offer. Zenyatta had always welcomed him to into his home, always eager to share his company and hospitality with Genji. He hurried along dark, vacant roads, rain coursing down the stone ledge paths. Shriveled ghosts prayed at the foot of the shrine, Genji imagined, watching the wind pick at fallen petals.

The temple gates were barred for the evening, but he had crawled past here before on late night business and already knew the easy entryways. Along the western parapet, he could scale just high enough to reach the lower level window. The way to Zenyatta's quarters were burned into memory. He was not as swift this time, overladen with exhaustion, his headscarf soaked.

“Master?” he whispered, knocking quietly. “It's Genji. Are you there?”

A light still flickered in the creases of the door. Zenyatta promptly appeared and invited him in, cautious of the noise their conversation might bring.

“It's 1am, Genji, what brings you here?” Zenyatta asked. It was clear he was apprehensive still, cautious to intrude at such a late hour. He brought Genji a towel and nestled him softly onto a cushion in the middle of the room. The orange warmth of the only lantern folding out in illuminated shells.

“It's a strange story or else a disturbing dream. I can't imagine you would believe me.”

“I am always willing to listen, my student,” Zenyatta said, embracing Genji, patting his shoulders gently. “You have nothing to fear.”

Genji sank close, apologizing and thanked Zenyatta for forgiveness. “It was more like a nightmare. Even as I think about it, I am just as disturbed as the moment I witnessed it.” He recounted the image of his corpse to Zenyatta, tracing it back to the night before, to his tear in the paper tapestry.

“I was just thinking for a while, about what it meant to be whole again,” he began. “I know I must learn to be at peace with this body and the second chance I have been given, but there are fears I cannot accept. If I was dead once, then surely that soul has died forever. I don't think I will ever come to terms with that.”

“I don't think I quite understand,” Zenyatta said, waiting to be sure Genji was finished.

“It's so hard to explain. It's just that, if my body here can be made whole, then so, too, can my dead half. And if I was dead once, then a part of my human self is still dead and now a part of my consciousness is unaware of the person left in living world. It's all I think about anymore and it became real, the same flesh. Am I an impostor then? Who can say I ever was _Genji_?” His fingers fanned out to match the symmetry, near perfect. Is this part of a miracle? Or rather an atrocity?

“I can tell you are confused. Your experience with death is unique and therefore, I do not possess exact answers concerning the afterlife. I can only offer perspective.”

Genji nodded, soothed merely by the sound of Zenyatta's voice and the splendor of his presence.

“What happened to you cannot be justified, Genji. Too many hands have manipulated you with cruel intentions. These experiences and thoughts are a result of that trauma, it reflects nothing of your identity,” Zenyatta said. His voice beamed, smiling in a way. “I am pleased that you are comfortable sharing with me. There is no greater reward than seeing you overcome your fears and accomplish your goals. Even if you are not wholly sure of who you are, I want nothing more than to aid you in becoming who you aspire to be.”

Genji clasped his hand, desperate to thank him properly. Zenyatta patted him gently.

“Some fear is not easy to overcome and will take time and discipline. Remember that what is gone from this world has not ceased to be, rather it has transcended into the multifaceted chasm of the universe. You cannot burden yourself with what is beyond your control. Know yourself,” he said, “in the face of death.”

“Right,” Genji murmured. It was good advise, and Genji was comforted momentarily. Even when the nightmares had passed, when he could cloud his mind with other thoughts, the permanence of death was still real. “But part of this self is still dead. It is impossible to forget. I remember what it was like to die and be gone. I feel it even when I am here sometimes.”

Zenyatta touched his student's side, the mechanized architecture of his chest, breathing in harmony with his heart. “Please tell me more.”

“It's just unnerving,” he said, and Zenyatta waited. Even with both their eyes shielded by metal he could feel Zenyatta watching him with keen intention. “Sometimes there is nothing but my own thoughts and darkness. Or I am stuck wandering in spirals. Everything feels like a surreal memory. I've always been here before. Does that seem strange?”

“Not at all.”

“And then I'll be back in this world again. Like waking up from a dream that lasts an eternity. Like being in my human body again.”

“I see. And how does it feel different?”

Genji thought for a moment, considering the shape of his former self and then also the weightlessness of the vacant afterlife. But in this body, in the same world he shared with Zenyatta, some distorted sense of normality still persisted.

“I feel just as tired,” he sighed, “but everything else seems fine, even the stress.”

“It sounds as though you still suffer from trauma, Genji. Residual feelings are normal; the feeling of loss is normal. You are only just learning to accept yourself. You cannot expend such thoughts and energy on fear for what has been done, and ignore your present needs. You are still functioning- there is still life in you,” he said. A sense of courage, long forgotten, encircled him like phantoms, as if the very shape of Zenyatta's voice was its own entity. “A man who loses his hand should not mourn his loss as the loss of self, nor feel haunted by its absence, though these are normal to consider. Relying on it to make sense of your worldly loss will not yield answers. One must move on. Create a better self.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, wondering if some response was necessary. “Where do I start?”

“Began by forgiving yourself. Allow yourself the space and time to separate yourself from these fears, but know that there is always guidance if you feel lost.”

“Master, thank you.”

“You are not alone, Genji. There is no reason to hide.”

He was shaking a little, fully registering the heavy surge of emotions measured out in tears. “I did not mean to hide from you, Zenyatta. I was confused. I still am. It has been a long time since I have felt like myself.” He brought his hand to his jaw, the metal shielding his damaged face. Genji himself had not seen his own face in years, catching only glimpses on the surface of the water while washing his skin.

Zenyatta had never asked about his face nor touched him any further than his shoulders, now his hand rested gently on Genji's neck. “You are under no obligations. Healing takes time.”

He thought for a moment, fully grasping his choices. “I know. It just seems like the right time to try. I feel safe with you.”

He withdrew the scarf and unhooked the metal clasps, resting the mask on his fingertips, light and curved as a sparrow wing. Under flickering lantern light, Genji's eyes, hazel and gold, shied away. Scars in odd angles reached across the structure of his face, the tissue taut and regrown. It was not unlike the cuts across his chest, which he was also reluctant to expose. Zenyatta did not flinch.

“How do you feel?”

“It's a bit easier to breathe.” This was always more comfortable when he was alone. “What do you think?”

Zenyatta cocked his head, enjoying this new face, however shrouded in darkness. He never once let go of Genji's left hand and gently massaging the muscles in serene circles. He steadied Genji's chin, catching his nervous gaze.

“This is not the same Genji Shimada I met a year ago. I have never been so proud.”

Genji guided his hand over the seam along his jaw, where synthetic tissues latched to bone and skin. The metal of his hand was pleasantly warm and soothing as it glided over his temples. He smiled, purring delightedly when Zenyatta's fingers trailed back to his chin.

“I think I would like to rest now,” Genji said, slumping dangerously close into Zenyatta, who then drew him only closer.

“Comfortable?”

He nodded. The relay between his nerves relaxed, the tension releasing in the last trails of smoke and firelight. He imagined his empty home in the village, and perhaps the whole world, just as vacant and mute, and closed his eyes. For once the silence was peaceful.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to explore Genji's experience with death and identity from his perspective, as well as the process between Master and Student toward finding enlightenment and acceptance.


End file.
